


Last Night on Earth

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, M/M, Missing Scene, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-04 03:25:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: Missing scene from 12x23All Along the Watchtower. While everyone waits for Lucifer to show up, Dean and Crowley sneak off to spend some time alone.





	Last Night on Earth

When Crowley and Castiel get back inside the cabin, Dean barely looks up to make sure it’s them and not Lucifer before dedicating his full attention to cleaning what appears to be the entire Winchester arsenal.

Sam, sitting at a desk behind stacks of books, raises his eyebrows expectantly. “So? How did it go?”

“We improved all the wardings as planned,” Castiel reports. “And we—“

“The alarm sigils are laid out and ready, all thanks to yours truly,” Crowley jumps in, the words in answer to Sam’s question but his eyes set on Dean. Who doesn’t even bother to acknowledge him. “The moment Lucifer gets close, we’ll know it.”

Sam nods curtly. “Good. That’s good.” With that, he goes back to his books, where he is double-checking every single step of the spell Crowley prepared because apparently one little lie by omission is enough to seriously diminish Crowley’s credibility in the Winchesters’ eyes.

The pages of old tomes rustle, Sam’s pen scratches on paper as he jots down notes.

The individual parts of Dean’s pearl-gripped Colt click as Dean’s fingers deftly assemble the gun. He doesn’t need to look at what he's doing, Crowley knows he could do it blindfolded just as easily. His eyes stay trained on the action of his hands anyway.

The silence coming from Dean is ear-splittingly loud, and somehow, it’s very clear that it’s directed both at Crowley  _and_  Cas. Which might seem a little odd, seeing as Dean appeared fine when they were coming up with the plan to take down Lucifer. But experience has taught Crowley that that was just Dean setting his issues aside long enough to discuss what needed to be discussed. And now Crowley and Cas are both getting the cold shoulder.

Because, let’s face it, Dean is a world-class drama queen. Crowley would know, he’s also a master of that particular art.

And so the tense, heavy silence continues.

Sam glances up a few times, gaze jumping from Crowley and Castiel to Dean and then back again. He must be perfectly aware of what is going on, but he doesn’t seem at all inclined to step in and help defuse the situation. Crowley could even swear he caught a glimpse of a smirk on Sam’s lips for a split second before Sam hid his head behind a large, heavy book.

 _Goddamn Winchesters_ , Crowley thinks, huffing out a breath. Next to him, Castiel shifts his weight rather loudly.

“You got something to say, say it.” Dean’s voice is tight, the words clipped. He still hasn’t looked up.

Faced with Dean’s obduracy, Castiel hangs his head and slinks past Dean and up the stairs, muttering something about checking on Kelly.

But Crowley isn’t Cas.

“May I have a word with you, Dean?”

A beat. Then, “I can’t really make you shut up, can I?”

“You misunderstand me. May I have a word with you,” he makes a significant pause, “ _alone_.”

Dean looks up at that, shooting a quick glance at Sam, who is watching them now with interest, before he rolls his eyes, puts down the shotgun he was cleaning and pushes his chair back loudly, getting to his feet. “Whatever,” he grumbles, and strides into the adjoining kitchen, marching through it and into the next room, a small closet. Crowley is right behind him, closing the door once they’re both inside.

He is not prepared for the fury that is Dean Winchester slamming him into a wall and pinning him there with strong hands and a look that could rival the one of a basilisk. And Crowley must be certifiably insane now - not that unlikely, considering what he's been through - because he  _likes_  it.

“What the hell do you want?” Dean growls, face mere inches away from Crowley's.

Crowley bucks against him, not trying to escape the hold, just fighting it enough to make Dean squeeze his wrists harder, press their bodies closer together. “I want  _this_.”

“Well, maybe you don't deserve to get what you want.”

"Perhaps," Crowley allows before using a boost of his demonic power to push Dean off. He grabs Dean by the front of his jacket and spins them around, so now it’s Dean who is held against the wall, with Crowley pressing up against him. Getting up on his tiptoes, he leans in to whisper into Dean’s ear, “But you want it too.”

Dean doesn’t deny it; his body would deny his words right back with the way he's pressing against Crowley in all the right places and squirming just the right way to provide friction where it’s most needed. As usual, he treats fights and arguments as foreplay. Crowley smirks.

Which doesn't escape Dean’s attention. His eyes narrow dangerously; he doesn't like it when Crowley is right about him. But he doesn’t stop rubbing his denim-clad crotch against Crowley’s, so Crowley thinks he can keep glowering all he wants.

But Dean’s not done yet, apparently. “I’m still pissed at you,” he says, and how he manages to sound turned on and mad at the same time joins the ever-growing list of Things About Dean Winchester That Crowley Finds Fascinating. “I mean  _seriously_ pissed at you.”

“I couldn’t fail to notice,” Crowley retorts. “What with you punching me in the face, putting a knife to my neck and stabbing my bloody hand!”

“Well, you deserved it, you lying son of a bitch!” Dean bucks against him, fighting for real this time.

Sighing, Crowley pushes back with his power. “Demon here, or did you forget?” Dean scowls but doesn’t say anything, so Crowley continues. “Now, instead of arguing about who’s the bigger bastard, how about we do something more pleasant to spend the time? This might be our last night on Earth, after all.”

Dean snorts. “You trying that crap on me again?”

“Why not?” Crowley smiles sweetly, just to spite Dean, who is still scowling. “It’s worked like a charm so far.” Dean scowls harder, which only makes Crowley smile wider. “I will never forget our romp before we went after Amara, or before we tried to take down Lucifer in LA, or that time with Lucifer’s hellhound getting free...”

“Crowley,” Dean snarls in warning.

“And of course,” Crowley carries on, “I will always cherish our first tumultuous, explosive connection that day we went to visit Cain. You were just so full of pent-up frmphh—”

Then Dean is kissing him, fast and rough, tongue shoving inside Crowley’s mouth mid-word. Crowley can’t help moaning in reaction to that wild, reckless abandon so typical for Dean.

He used to consider it a weakness back when he first met Dean, but so many things have changed and Crowley’s come to love the fierce, all-consuming, all-or-nothing way Dean kisses and fucks and pretty much does everything, loving and hating and hurting and fighting and being alive.

It’s dangerous, he knows that, because it’s contagious, makes Crowley want to be like that too, do insane things because he believes in them, risk everything because he thinks he should, give everything because someone else would.

It’s scary.

It’s exhilarating.

And Crowley doesn't fight it. 

He somehow finds himself squished between Dean and the wall again, and this game of spin each other should be ridiculous, but Dean’s lips are soft on Crowley’s mouth and his stubble is scratchy against Crowley’s beard, and Crowley’s eyes fall closed as he just takes it all in, takes what he can.

If he could, Crowley would try to slow things down, kiss Dean nice and thorough. He’d strip Dean naked and lay him out on the nearest flat surface, crawl between those legs that always spread so eagerly for him and stay there for hours. Savour every sound and every taste, etch every image into his memory. Recall all the things he’s learned over the years to drive Dean mad and use them until the tight, angry lines around the corners of Dean’s mouth were replaced by an open, lazy smile that would say Crowley’s betrayal is forgotten, if not forgiven, because Dean doesn’t forgive easily.

But there’s no time for that. Hell, there’s probably no time for this either. Yet here they are, wet lips and hot hands shoved under each other’s clothes, grabbing, scratching, leaving marks, trying to hold on.

Wrapping his palm around the back of Dean's head, Crowley pulls Dean lower. Dean lets him, bending down to kiss Crowley deeper, planting his feet wider to get closer to Crowley's height level. Crowley shoves a leg between Dean's thighs, and Dean immediately begins grinding against him.

They knock something over, and it falls with a fairly loud clatter. Freezing where he stands, Crowley holds his breath, expecting to be scolded for not being careful enough, waiting for the  _someone might hear_  lecture to begin.

But Dean just shrugs. "They'll deal," is all he says.

Crowley agrees wholeheartedly. He turns the key in the lock though, to make sure they won't be disturbed. Which is good, because things escalate quickly after that.

Dean's teeth capturing Crowley's earlobe and biting down before his tongue soothes the sting away, making Crowley curse.

Crowley's fingers grabbing fistfuls of Dean's hair and pulling hard, making Dean's breath hitch.

Both reaching to palm each other's erection at the same time. Both groaning at the touch.

Dean undoing Crowley’s fly with sure, practiced fingers that wrap around Crowley’s cock in an almost proprietary manner. He starts stroking him immediately, fast and a little too rough for Crowley’s tastes, and that might be because Dean’s trying to make this fast, but Crowley suspects it’s just one more way of letting him know that things between them are still miles away from okay.

It doesn’t really matter. Dean is touching him, and that’s good enough for now. Far more than good.

The back of Crowley’s head thuds against the wall as he arches his neck, both in reaction to the touch of Dean’s calloused hand and in an attempt to keep Dean’s face in his field of vision so that he can watch every slightest shift of expression as he cups and squeezes Dean’s cock through his jeans.

Dean’s kiss-swollen mouth is open, and he’s letting out these tiny soft pants that turn into louder moans when Crowley finally gets past Dean’s belt, that annoying denim and the worn fabric of Dean’s boxers. Dean is hot and hard in his palm, slick with precome already. Crowley smears the fluid with his thumb, and Dean’s breath stutters, the movements of his own hand around Crowley’s cock faltering.

“You’re so easy,” Crowley can’t resist saying, and the painfully hard squeeze Dean gives him is well worth it.

“And you’re too full of yourself.”

“Why not?” Crowley smirks and slides the fingers of his left hand past Dean’s balls, further back. “Especially if I know how much you love to be full of me too.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters, half annoyance and half agreement. He spreads his feet wider, as wide as the jeans around his thighs allow, to grant Crowley better access.

Crowley easily finds the tight furl of muscle hidden between Dean’s cheeks. It’s hot and sweat-damp and there’s not enough room for manoeuvring like this, but Crowley makes it work, rubbing one finger over Dean’s entrance.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, head dropping down to rest against Crowley’s, forehead to forehead. He slams a hand into the wall right next to Crowley’s head for support and stays like that, panting into Crowley’s mouth, shaking under Crowley’s touch.

And Crowley can give him even more. He starts to slide down, wants to get to his knees and put his mouth on Dean, but he doesn’t get far before his progress is halted.

“Stay here.”

“Why? I could—”

A wide palm presses into the centre of his chest, keeping Crowley in place. “Stay  _here_ , goddammit.” It’s probably meant to sound like a gruff order, but it comes out as more of a desperate plea. And Crowley can’t say no to that.

“Fine. Your loss.” Crowley takes Dean’s right hand off his chest and guides it back down to his cock. “My gain.”

“Just shut up,” Dean says and goes back to jerking Crowley off. His other hand moves to cover Crowley’s left one, clutching tight. Crowley doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t want Dean to stop.

They find their rhythm again soon, and then lose it together as their movements grow wilder and uncoordinated, clumsy. They're no longer kissing, just breathing into each other’s mouth, teeth clashing and catching on lips occasionally when one of them bucks too hard.

The air in the small room is full of their scent now, sex and sweat, Dean’s gun oil and cheap cologne and Crowley’s expensive perfume. Dean’s face has reached that open book state, vulnerable and so beautiful it hurts, and he’s making these little noises,  _ah ah yeah, please, Crowley, yeah_ —

And that's all it takes.

“Dean, I’m—” He shudders hard as he spills over Dean’s hand, knees going weak and he thinks  _he can hold me up_ , but Dean’s coming too, and they end up in a messy heap on the floor, breathing hard and shaking all over.

Precious time ticks on. Crowley measures it in Dean's gradually slowing breaths, in the drops of sweat rolling down from Dean's hairline, over sharp cheekbones to the strong jawline.

He could stay like this forever.

But inevitably, reality starts to creep in, ruining the fantasy with Kelly's cries audible from upstairs, with stupid bottles of cleaning detergent on the shelves, with an angelblade resting on the floor where Dean must have dropped it at some point without Crowley even noticing that Dean had the weapon on him in the first place. But of course Dean would have one. They're here to fight, not daydream.

Still, Crowley doesn’t want to be the first to move; he doesn't want to move at all. But they will have to, and he hates the idea of Dean moving away from him first. So he shivers a little as if the cool air on his exposed skin is bothering him, and he scrunches up his nose as he sniffs the air, frowning at their rumpled clothes and the come drying on their fingers. “Nasty,” he says as he reaches into his breast pocket for his Swiss cotton monogrammed handkerchief and starts wiping himself off.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees and pulls out a bandana from one of those mysterious, bottomless pockets of his to do the same.

They clean up in silence. They get to their feet, dust themselves off, tidy up their clothes, look each other over to make sure they look presentable. Crowley fixes Dean’s mussed up hair. Dean straightens Crowley’s tie and flicks a speck of dust from his jacket collar.

Finally, there’s nothing left to do but go back.

Crowley clears his throat. “Look, about what I did…”

Dean’s face hardens. “Just don’t.” He doesn't sound angry anymore, just very tired.

Nodding to himself, Crowley accepts that this will have to do. “Alright. Off to fight the good fight then, is it?”

“More like off to be the devil’s punching bag. But hey,” Dean gives him a grin, “at least this time I know I’m bait. Not like when you sent me to Brady.”

“What? Don't tell me you're still not over that!”

Dean cocks an eyebrow at him.

Crowley lets out a dramatic sigh, accompanied by an eyeroll. “Alright, fair enough. But don’t forget I gave a lot of blood for you too over the years.”

“Yes. I know.” Dean is watching him all serious now, like he’s searching for something in Crowley’s face.

“What now?”

“Nothing,” Dean says eventually. “Just… You’re not keeping anything from me this time, are you?”

“Of course not.” Crowley offers his best earnest smile, the one that makes soccer moms and playboy billionaires alike sell their soul to the trustworthy Englishman in a nice suit.

Dean doesn’t seem convinced. “We do things just like we agreed. Lure Lucifer into Bizarro World, I let him beat the shit out of me so you and Sam can work the spell, and then we hightail it back home. No more shady dick moves. You stick to the plan. Got it?”

“Got it.” Crowley looks at Dean, lets Dean really look at him. He doesn’t attempt a smile this time. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”

Dean’s eyes narrow as he studies Crowley for several long moments. Then he finally nods. “Alright. Let’s go.” He claps Crowley on the shoulder and walks past him, out of the room and into the impending battle.

Crowley follows.


End file.
